Jock raised himself from the rug once more. He did not lose a word either of the book or the conversation. “I’ve read it before; but this time I’ve just come to the windmills,” he said. “The windmills? now what may they be?” “I told you,” said Lucy, regretfully, “they are all nonsense books--nothing that is of any good.” “Because you don’t know,” cried Jock, hotly. “You’ve no business to speak when you don’t know. _He_ doesn’t think they’re windmills; he thinks they’re big giants, and they’re just like it--just like giants-- I’ve thought so myself. He thinks they’ve got a lot of poor people carrying them off to be slaves, and there’s only _him_ upon his own horse--nobody more; but do you think he’ll let them carry off the poor people for slaves? He goes at them like a dozen knights--he goes at them like an army,” cried Jock, his eyes flashing. “I wish I had been there, I’d have done it, too.” “Ah, Don Quixote,” said St. Clair. “What! you, Jock! You that know such a lot--you’d have gone at the windmills, too?” Jock grew red, for he did not like ridicule. “He didn’t know they were windmills,” he said. “Didn’t I tell you, Mr. St. Clair,” said Lucy, “that is all he thinks about--windmills? what good can windmills do him? unless he were to learn all about the uses of them, and who began them, and the good they are to the country; that would be very different from a fairy tale.” “It is not a bit a fairy tale,” Jock cried, indignant. “It’s a long time since I read any fairy tales--never any since Prospero and Ariel on the enchanted island. This is about a man. Fairy tales are very nice when you are quite little,” he added, with dignity, “just beginning to read plain; but when you are bigger you like the sense best, for you can think, I would do the same.” “You see, Mr. St. Clair, that is just like him; it is not education,” said Lucy, with mild despair.